Indulge me, please.
I promise this will be the last one on this subject for a while.
Game seven of the World Series. November 3, 2016. The series is tied three games a piece. My Cubs are a game away from being World Champions for the first time since 1918.
Around 5:00 PM my wife, two friends, and a one hundred fifty pound German Shepherd named Baby sat waiting for the first pitch. Three sisters, a brother, a daughter and son were on a group text, commenting on the game.
Baby barks. A lot. Particularly with strangers in the house. I gave him half of an anti-anxiety medication. He got quieter, barking a little less, but still barking (and for you animal lovers out there, the dog is doing well with the exception of recent quaalude addiction and his rehab is going fine.)
My phone was constantly vibrating. Every three seconds or so, somebody would text something about the game. I don’t really remember what they said but I do remember the constant vibration on my phone. Another distraction. I returned the texts between innings and after any big plays. It was nice to be connected to my family, but I just wanted to watch the game. And right then, the meds completely wore off and the dog went into a bark spasm that woke neighbors from here to Yuma.
Finally, after nine innings and a tie ballgame, the rain came and saturated the field. The satellite photos of the weather map were menacing and I was sure it was going to be at least an hour, probably more, before the rain stopped.
I turned off the TV. I was exhausted. I figured I’d see the rest of the game in the morning. I was done with the dog and my friends and the texting. I would wait until tomorrow to see who won. I hit the sack. I turned off the TV. I would be OK with the Cubs being National League Champs or World Champs. Either way, I was too tired and frustrated to care that much at the moment.
My phone gets alerts from MLB.com. During the year I turn it off because I get updates from every inning on every team. I turned it on for the playoffs and it came in handy.
But that night, with the TV on and my family texting, I didn’t see any updates. The texting blurred the notifications.
As I put my phone on the nightstand, it buzzed. I thought my siblings were long retired from the marathon texting, but I looked at the phone anyway.
It was an update from MLB.com. “Zobrist doubles, Almora scores, the Cubs lead 8-7.”
From the pillow to the TV is about five feet. I was airborne. I hit the “on” button so hard I jammed my finger.
As the TV turned on, I saw Miquel Montero hit a single in the five hole between short and second. Rizzo scored to make it 9 to 7.
After a couple of outs, and letting the Indians get a run, I was holding my breath. As Maddon took out Carl Edwards and brought in Mike Montgomery, my wife’s phone rang.
It was her daughter Katie. She was on FaceTime. A dear girl, this kid. Senior at the University of Arizona. Brilliant, athletic, and cute as a bug.
She called, as she told her mother, “To see Ed’s face when the Cubs win the World Series.”
When Bryant threw the ball to Rizzo, I couldn’t look at the phone. I heard Katie ask, “Is he crying?”
Her mother said, “Yeah, he’s crying.”
When you see something beautiful and new for the first time, it is a moving experience. The depth of emotion can catch you off guard. Particularly after a long struggle, years and months of patience, persistence, attachment, forgiveness and love, emotion is collected and weighs heavy. When it finally is released, the relief-laden happiness nearly explodes from your pores.
Tears are the messengers of joy. They hold the phrases of happiness that no words can express.
This year, I can breathe in fully. The air fills my chest. I stand taller. I smile wider. And, when I see the Cubs take the field for their first game in Wrigley field, I’ll probably cry again.
Because-and I can feel my breath catch in my throat when I type these words-my wonderful, incredible, God-how-I-love-them-so Chicago Cubs-yeah, THE CHICAGO CUBS, are the World. Freakin’. Champions.
By entrusting us with your feelings, we help you take steps that you see necessary to begin and put forth the energy to make the needed change.
Now notice something: Trust in a coach, mentor, or guide helps you see what's in front of you. We see a Coach for Your Heart a little like an emotional Sherpa, somebody that helps you climb your mountain by pointing out where to best step along the path.
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